


Impulse Control

by devilsalwayscry



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Demonic instincts, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Post-DMC5, Uncle/Nephew Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-04 17:44:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21201578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devilsalwayscry/pseuds/devilsalwayscry
Summary: Moving in to the Devil May Cry shop has an unfortunate consequence for Nero: his new and overpowering demon instincts are kicking in to overdrive. It sucks. Luckily, Dante's there to help, for the most part.





	Impulse Control

**Author's Note:**

  * For [neonthrones](https://archiveofourown.org/users/neonthrones/gifts).

> For the loveliest Jem, for the fall Secret Santa Gift Exchange over in the Spardacest Discord server. I sort of smashed a few of your wants/prompts together for this one, so I hope it's to your liking. <3
> 
> Big thanks to Falt for letting me bounce ideas with them and for coming up with some suggestions for what Nero's demon sleepwalking adventures could entail. ilu

There is approximately a two second window between the moment when Nero is sound asleep on the couch in the Devil May Cry lobby and the moment when he finds himself flying across the room. In the span of those scant few seconds, he has enough time to think, “oh, something’s wrong” before instincts drown out everything else, an alarm blaring in his brain, flashing bright and loud with all of the signs of danger that he’s come to know oh so well since he began to fully accept his demon side.

By the time Nero’s caught up with himself, brain and body finally lining up into one physical location, he’s moved something like five feet. He’s on his knees on the floor, cold wood digging into bare skin, and he’s summoned his wings. Beneath him is a demon that has gone still as a statue, its body rigid. Nero has one clawed wing-hand on its chest, pressing it down flat into the floor, and the other is wrapped tightly around the demon’s throat. Nero’s breathing hard, chest heaving like he’s just run ten miles in the span of five seconds.

Another long moment of pause, the sound of the ceiling fan and his own panting the only thing to break the silence, and then a realization hits him: _oh, it’s humanoid_, and even more belatedly he realizes, _oh fuck, it’s Dante_, and he immediately goes still.

Beneath him, Dante chuckles, although it is more of a breathy wheeze because of Nero’s hand around his throat. The sound registers, just barely, as something friendly—but then instincts take over again, screaming a wordless, panicked siren’s wail about possessiveness, and protectiveness, and how Dante smells _wrong_.

The thought is absurd enough that it gives Nero pause, derailing his incoherent rambling with enough efficiency he is able to take a small mental step back. He blinks in an effort to come back to himself, eyes sliding over Dante’s face.

_Okay_, he thinks slowly. It’s the middle of the night and he’s barely slept for two days as it is—he’s tired. _What the fuck do you mean wrong?_

There’s a low growl somewhere deep in his soul, and he reflexively tightens his grip on Dante’s throat. The older man does not react.

_Not like home_, Nero thinks, and he gives the growl a voice this time, although it’s mostly a sound of very human annoyance rather than very demonic anger. Of course Dante doesn’t smell like home. He’s been gone on a job for two days. He smells like wet dog and dead demons and dried blood. He’s filthy.

Beneath him, Dante's looking up at him through half-lidded eyes, but even with that Nero can see how they glow crimson in the dark. He’s supernaturally still under Nero’s grip, posture cleary submissive: head tilted back, throat bared, breathing shallow enough it looks like he’s not. His hands are spread at his sides where Nero can clearly see them, palms pressed flat to the floor. That’s nice—he likes the clear sign of submission, the acknowledgment that Nero is in control right now.

With a low purr he leans forward, pressing his face into Dante’s neck beneath his chin, where the glowing blue tips of his clawed hand are digging lightly into his flesh. He takes a few slow, deep breaths, through his nose, then through his mouth. Underneath the scent of foreign demons and blood and just plain dirt, he can pick up the faint traces of home: warm, spicy incense and gun oil, as well as the scent of—

He falters a little, breath catching in his chest. Nero nuzzles his face against the side of Dante's jaw, taking another deep breath, and yeah, buried beneath everything else is the scent of—of him. It’s barely noticeable because of the time they’ve spent apart, but it is enough that it soothes that wailing, whining voice inside of Nero. Appeased once more, he’s able to blink away the hazy red film that’s been covering his vision since he woke up and recenter himself. Sighing, he leans back onto his haunches atop Dante's thighs.

"... Fuck," Nero says, willing his spectral arms to fade to relieve the pressure he's putting on Dante's throat. He pushes a hand back through his hair, then scratches his nails against his scalp in an effort to wake himself up a little. The fuck was that about? "Sorry. I dunno why I just went all nuts on you."

"Lemme guess," Dante says with a quiet laugh, finally lifting his hands from the floor to sit them upon Nero’s thighs, soothingly stroking his hands up and down. His voice is rough and scratchy while his throat heals properly. It makes Nero shudder. "Smelled weird?"

Nero groans. "Yeah. I was asleep one second and then the next I was trying to choke you out on the floor because you smelled like shit instead of—" he falters, trying to decide how much he feels comfortable saying. In the time since he began having these particular… problems, he’s avoided the topic with Dante entirely, feeling too self-conscious—and too stubborn—about the problem to go to the older man for help.

However, he should perhaps draw the line at “nearly choking your uncle on the living room floor at 3AM,” he thinks, and so he sighs and allows himself a moment to take a few deep breaths before he continues.

"Instead of home." With a quiet cough he ducks his face down against the neckline of his hoodie, eyes focused on the ground by Dante's head. "Instead of. Uh. Me, I guess. Or, at least, that's what my brain seems to insist."

Dante laughs, pushing Nero back further onto his thighs so he can give himself enough leeway to sit up. Nero wraps his legs around Dante's waist once he does, then loops his arms around his chest and tucks his chin on the older man's shoulder, burrowing close against his almost inhuman warmth. This entire experience has been far worse than human puberty, if there’s even anything comparable about them at all. At least with human puberty he didn't try to kill anyone with his bare hands.

"Makes sense," Dante says, putting his arms around Nero's shoulders and leaning his head against his. It appeases the little voice in Nero's head a bit to be in Dante's arms, warm and solid as they are, but nervous energy is still vibrating under his skin, because Dante still smells _wrong_. "Happens to the best of us, kid. Don't sweat it."

"I tried to—god, I was just fucking _choking you_," Nero says, unable to entirely keep the panic and guilt out of his voice at the realization that he'd actually reached a point of constricting the older man's breathing, and Dante shrugs.

"Wouldn't have killed me. You know that." Dante rubs his hands up and down Nero's back, turning his face to press his mouth against Nero's temple. It's almost infuriating how good Dante's become at reading Nero's moods, and if he were in any other mindset, he'd probably push away. Instead, he just burrows into the hug even more, not missing the way Dante takes a deep breath of his own, or how he seems to relax ever so slightly once he does. "Besides, I wouldn't let you do anything either of us would regret, alright? Promise."

"I was _asleep_," Nero says, frustration making his face hot and his voice sharp. How's he supposed to keep his demon in check if it's going to take the reins when he's _asleep_?

"That happens," Dante says, sounding remarkably cavalier for someone who was on the receiving end of Nero's sleep-attacking experience. Dante presses his mouth to the side of Nero’s head, above his ear, then trails his lips down to Nero's neck. The kisses are a bit excessive, but that is all part of Dante’s ploy—a distraction tactic meant to take Nero’s mind off of things. He’s figured the old man out enough that he’s well aware of what he’s doing, and he doesn't really have the heart (or the desire) to tell him to stop. He can feel himself relaxing a little, the anger and annoyance fading to a dull whisper in his mind rather than a constant low roar. "You'll get a handle on it with time, trust me. Lucky for you, I'm a pretty patient guy."

Nero rolls his eyes, even though Dante can’t see it with how they’re positioned, and sighs again. He’s been living with Dante at the shop for several months now, an arrangement that had seemed best for all parties involved in the long term, and he’s glad he made the change. Dante can handle being chokeslammed into the floorboards in the middle of the night, sure, but what if that had been Kyrie? The kids?

Realistically, he knows he wouldn’t have reacted the same were it anyone else, because it was Dante’s demonic presence that had been both a blessing and a curse in this scenario, but, well. It’s hard to not let his mind wander, half awake and frustrated as he is. The what if scenarios bounce around in his brain, fueling his frustration and panic until he can feel himself shake with anger—at himself, at the stupid voice in his head, at this entire goddamn situation.

Dante’s reaction is immediate. His hands smooth down Nero’s back, his face pressing into his neck as he murmurs something indistinct into Nero’s shoulder. It sounds more like a purr than actual words, and even though it’s a bit strange, it helps just as much as the kisses had.

“You didn’t actually hurt me, Nero,” Dante says, voice gone soft and serious. "Doesn't do any good to get upset about something you can't help."

Nero shakes his head into Dante's shoulder. "I'm not _upset_, I'm just... frustrated. With myself." He tightens his grip on the front of Dante's shirt, grimacing a little at the dried blood he gets a handful of in the process. He’d forgotten about the fact that Dante's just gotten back from a long job. It's worth ignoring it at this point, however. "This shit sucks."

"Trust me, kid, I know," Dante responds, arms tightening around Nero's shoulders once more before he pulls away. "Come on. I wanna get cleaned up and sleep for a few dozen hours."

Nero rolls his eyes even as Dante picks him up, hands under his hips to support his weight. Tightening his legs and arms around Dante, he allows himself to be carried upstairs, pushing the thoughts of his grouchy demon out of his mind, content with the knowledge that they're on their way to fixing the little "smells like home" problem anyway.

* * *

"Well, this is a new one."

Dante's voice sounds like it's coming to him from several miles away, faint and muffled, like Nero’s head is covered or Dante’s speaking to him from behind a closed door. Nero focuses on it, on the strangeness of it, and mutters what he thinks is a "what?" in response (it is, in reality, a bit more like a snarl). There is a laugh from somewhere to Nero's right, followed by the sound of footsteps, and it is only when Dante is standing over him that Nero realizes he is lying prone on his back in—he glances past Dante's head at the ceiling—in the kitchen.

The kitchen?

With a start he bolts upright, the movement sending a cloud of plastic wrappers and tin foil drifting through the air before falling into his lap. Moving so suddenly makes the blood rush to his head, and he groans, pressing a hand to his right eye in an effort to stem some of the steady throbbing in his skull.

What on earth is he doing in the _kitchen_? Looking down into his lap, he picks up one of the pieces of plastic that had fallen off of his chest and holds it up to his face, inspecting the wrapper through one eye.

"... Why are there candy wrappers everywhere?" Nero asks, dropping the mini chocolate bar remains back into his lap with a tired groan. He doesn't remember coming down here at all. His head feels like it's been stuffed full of cotton balls and his mouth tastes like overly processed sugar. Nero has a pretty good guess why there's candy wrappers surrounding him like some kind of snack bar graveyard, but he asks the question anyway, because it's the only thing he can think to say.

Dante, of course, opts for a clever quip, rather than an answer of any kind.

"Y'know, if you were hungry, you could've just said something. Would've ordered more for dinner," Dante says between a snort and a laugh, his hands on his hips and a smirk of amusement on his face. Nero flips him off on principle.

"What the hell did I do."

"I like to call this part the midnight munchies," Dante says, and when Nero rolls his eyes, Dante drops his hand onto the top of Nero’s head and gently ruffles his hair in a way that Nero thinks is meant to be soothing. (It is, because Nero is easy when it comes to Dante.) "Let's just hope you don't develop a taste for something with a little more protein," Dante says thoughtfully, and even though it’s pretty clear he’s joking, Nero's stomach lurches at the implication. There's something about eating meat in the middle of the night when his demon brain is running the show that makes him feel a little queasy.

"If you're trying to make me feel better, you suck at it," Nero says, grabbing Dante's wrist to pull his hand off of his head. With a grumble Nero climbs to his feet, the candy wrappers falling around him into a messy pile on the floor, and he stomps through them to get himself a glass of water to try to get the taste of so much sugar out of his mouth. Behind him, he hears Dante begin picking up his mess, and okay, wow, maybe he made the old man feel bad, if he's willingly cleaning something up as a result of what Nero said.

Nero pours himself a glass of water and chugs it, sitting the glass to the side so he can join Dante in picking up his mess. He's always hated having other people clean up after him.

"I got this," Nero says, and Dante just shrugs as he tosses his handful of wrappers into the trash. Ugh, how many of these things did he eat? Nero makes a point of not counting them as he tosses his own collection into the bin as well, wiping his hands on his pajama pants.

"Eh, not a big deal," Dante responds, watching Nero with that same stupid little smirk of his plastered to his face. "Though you're going to have some explaining to do tomorrow. I think most of those were from Vergil's not-so-secret stash."

Nero looks into the wastebin and groans. Shit.

"What can I do to make this _stop_? First I attack you, and now I'm eating all your food. Asleep! I don't even remember this shit!"

Dante, as unhelpful as ever, shrugs. "At least you just ate candy, kid. Look on the bright side."

"I don't even want to think about what that could mean," Nero says, shaking his head and pinching his brow. It’s not often that he gets something like a headache or a stomach ache, being partially demon, but he’s got a hell of a headache now, hammering away behind his eyes. Turns out there's a limit to the amount of sugar even a partial-demon can eat before they start to feel like shit.

"Have you tried talking to it?" Dante asks, voice doing that _thing_ Nero's become familiar with—that thing where it gets a little sharper, a little deeper, his enunciation exact. It's his serious conversation voice, so Nero drops his hand from his face and folds his arms on his chest, considering the question.

Outside of his barely remembered attempts to make any sense of his rambling thoughts when he'd pounced on Dante the other night, he most definitely hasn't tried talking to "it," whatever it is. The entire situation is still pretty damn confusing to him. His demon side is just a part of him, not a separate entity, but there are definitely times when it butts into his thoughts like it has a mind of his own. Up until now, Nero’s just considered it to be something like a demonic fueled intrusive thought—a bit like having a song or a sentence stuck in your head and repeating itself ad nauseum without your consciously thinking about it.

"Is that even possible? What the hell do I even talk to? It's just... me, right?" Nero asks, and Dante offers him another shrug.

"Sure," he says, placing a hand on his chest in a gesture that feels distinctly thoughtless, his thumb caressing over where Nero knows the scar on his sternum is hidden beneath his long-sleeved t-shirt. "Don't tell me you've never talked to yourself before? Just do that." His hand drops to his side, as if he's realized what he's doing because Nero has been looking at it, and he sighs.

Nero's never really gotten a good understanding of Dante's history prior to their meeting in Fortuna—he doesn't even know what the scar on his chest is _from_—but it's pretty obvious that this is a bit of a sensitive subject for him. Seeing Dante's reaction makes Nero even more reluctant to talk about it, for fear of dredging up some bad memories for the older man, but then he remembers the "protein" comment, and the near choking from the other night, and a shudder works its way down his spine before he can stop it.

Nero looks away, rubbing at his nose with the back of his hand. "I dunno. I mean, I guess? Who doesn't."

"I know it sounds stupid. This whole thing is stupid," Dante says, crossing the room to join Nero at his side. Before Nero can protest, Dante loops an arm around his waist, pulling him against his side into a one-armed hug. "Just think of it like..." Dante pauses, clearly trying to think of some relevant example, before he settles on saying, "like meditation or something."

Nero gets the pretty distinct impression that Dante is talking from experience, which makes his suggestion all the more strange, because he has a hard time imagining Dante doing something like meditating. Although, now that he thinks about it, the other man _does_ spend a remarkable amount of time just lounging around the place with his eyes closed even when he's not taking a nap, so maybe there’s something to it.

The thought is still so strange that Nero can't help but laugh a little, pushing against Dante's side before slipping free of the arm around his shoulders.

"Alright, whatever. I'll give it a shot."

* * *

Meditating turns out to be harder than Nero thought it would be. He sits on the side of his bed, hands folded in his lap, feet flat on the floor, and he takes a few deep, slow breaths. In through the nose and out through the mouth. Count slowly backwards from ten.

It reminds him a little bit of being back in Fortuna, when he’d try to kneel alongside the other members of the Order for prayer. He’d never been particularly good at that, either, unable to sit still for any length of time, every little noise or discomfort amplified tenfold by the silence and stillness around him. At least now, in the comfort of his borrowed room in Dante’s shop, it’s not nearly as awkward, but he still finds himself struggling to clear his mind of any other wandering thoughts.

With a little sigh he sits up straighter, lengthening his spine and letting his shoulder fall lax in an effort to convince himself to relax. He has absolutely no idea what he’s supposed to be doing right now, so he tries to just… sit, and listen, and let his mind drift a little bit inward.

_No more midnight adventures,_ he tells himself after a while of sitting in silence, feeling like perhaps he should try to engage with this thing outright. Nero’s not entirely sure what he should be expecting for a response, but he receives only silence either way, and he frowns to himself and bites his lip thoughtfully. This whole situation would be considerably easier if his subconscious would just work with him here, but of course he can’t possibly have things that easy.

After another five minutes of sitting awkwardly in silence, he drops back onto the bed, opening his eyes to stare up at the cracked plaster ceiling. That entire endeavor felt supremely unhelpful and he feels no closer now to understanding why he keeps doing the things he’s doing than he was before he tried negotiating with himself. 

Maybe it’s something that requires practice. Sitting in quiet reflection and contemplation is far from Nero’s strong suit. He’s always more prone to movement and action, preferring to face his problems head on rather than sit and mull them over. That won’t work here, of course, because the problem is coming from _within_, which means he can’t really fight it to work things out.

There’s something going on with his instincts, that much he knows. He’s been jumpy lately, snarling at any humans that come to the shop if they come too close when he’s not expecting it, not to mention the incidences of the past few nights. For some reason he’s more on edge than before, which is strange, because they’ve been living together for a few months now and this wasn’t a problem at first. It’s been long enough that Nero’s gotten used to the idea of having an actual family (and whatever else his relationship with Dante is, something that is still considerably newer and more complicated), so for his demon side to suddenly be pitching a fit about the arrangement makes no sense.

There must be something he’s missing. He’s considering the question when he dozes off, eyelids growing heavy even though he’s still hanging half off of the bed, and when he opens his eyes next he’s staring up at clouds and stars and the open sky above the shop, a cool breeze blowing over his bare face and arms.

He blinks, momentarily disoriented.

“Stargazing?” 

Nero turns his head to the side, ignoring the discomfort of the hard concrete rooftop against his cheek, and narrows his eyes at Dante. The older man is sitting cross-legged a few feet away from Nero, his elbow propped up on his knee and his chin resting on his fist. He’s clearly been watching Nero for however long he’s been doing whatever it is he’s doing up here. The expression Dante wears is remarkably soft and unguarded, a gentle smile tugging at the corner of his lips, and Nero feels his cheeks get warm at the scrutiny. 

“Guess so,” Nero responds, turning his head away and draping an arm over his eyes to hide the color that’s crept into his face. Dante hums thoughtfully at his side.

“Didn’t know you talked in your sleep,” Dante says, and Nero slides his arm down enough that he can peer at Dante with one eye. 

“Thought I wasn’t really sleeping.”

Dante shrugs. “Same difference.”

“Uh, did I say anything helpful?”

Dante’s smile gets a little wider at Nero’s question and the older man looks away for a moment, gaze turning toward the horizon to look out over the mostly bare streets and few businesses that share the neighborhood. It’s quiet out here, which probably means it’s the dead of night again. At least Nero’s little night time excursions appear to be on something of a schedule.

“Eh, nothing too special,” Dante says with a nonchalant swipe of his hand. “But I’ve got an idea of what’s going on with you, I think.”

Nero perks up at that, pulling the arm away from his face to sit up and turn so he can get a good look at Dante. That same expression of soft amusement is tugging at the corner of his mouth, the fine creases near his eyes, but there’s something else there, too, something a little more wistful. Nero tilts his head toward the older man, crossing his arms.

“Let’s hear it.”

“How do you like it here?” Dante asks, returning his attention to Nero’s face. There’s a moment where Nero’s not entirely sure what Dante’s even talking about, and then it hits him that he’s asking about living with Dante. It’s far from what Nero was expecting him to say, and he flushes, ducking his face down to try to hide the blush that’s threatening to return to his cheeks.

“I dunno, it’s—it’s nice, I guess?” Nero says, leveling Dante with a look that he hopes conveys that he’s not entirely sure how to approach this topic. “What the hell kind of question is that?”

The truth of the matter is that Nero likes it here… a lot. More than a lot, really, because for the first time in his life he feels like he actually fits in somewhere, like he’s actually got a place that feels like home. Living with Kyrie had been great, and he’d loved it, but there’d always been a part of him that didn’t feel like it had fit in there, because he was different. Here, though, he doesn’t have that—for all his teasing quips and irritating sense of humor, Dante understands, and it shows in how he’s been helping Nero through this whole thing, both directly and subtly.

Putting any of that into words feels impossible, half because it’s honestly a bit embarrassing and half because he isn’t even sure he can find the best words to say it, so instead Nero just says nothing.

Dante doesn’t give him trouble for it, at least, instead just nodding as if he understands that, too.

“Demons are territorial by nature,” Dante says, knocking his fist on the roof of the shop while he talks. “Just something coded into their DNA, I guess. Never been immune to it myself.” He laughs, shaking his head. “You should’ve seen the first two weeks with Vergil here. Thought we were going to kill each other over who was walking where.”

Nero raises an eyebrow at him in surprise at the admission. Imagining the two of them fighting isn’t that hard, because, well, that was their default state for a while there, but he’s a little shocked to hear that even his father isn’t entirely in control of his more demonic impulses sometimes. It makes Nero feel a little bit better, even though he doubts that was Dante’s intention, to know that even someone as experienced in this as Dante or Vergil has their fair share of trouble sometimes, too.

Dante sounds thoughtful when he continues, voice soft: “You’ve been here a few months, so it’d stand to reason you’d feel something similar. Two other demons nearby, humans coming and going…” Dante shrugs. “Makes sense, if you ask me.”

Again Nero’s not really sure what to say to that, but a part of him feels like Dante’s right. It does make a lot of sense, because he does see the place as home now, so maybe he’s feeling a little protective of it. Now that he has this in his life, the idea of going without it again—even though he had, for so long—is almost unbearable.

With a sigh Nero pushes a hand back through his hair, then scrubs at his face, considering Dante’s words. 

“Okay, sure. Maybe I’ve been feeling a little… protective, I guess,” Nero says, leaning back on his hands to look up at the slightly cloudy night sky. They’re just far enough on the outskirts of the city that the light pollution out here isn’t too unbearable. Better than Fortuna in that way, too. “How do I get this under control?”

“Just ride it out. Eventually you’ll figure things out.”

“That’s shitty advice,” Nero responds, because so far, just riding it out hasn’t been that effective. Everything he’s done so far has been pretty innocuous, but he’s still thinking about Dante’s offhand comments from the other day, about how he’d attacked Dante on reflex, and it’s hard to imagine just “riding it out” is the right answer.

“Look. None of it really makes sense—we’re kind of a special case, y’know? Three of a kind,” Dante says, climbing to his feet and stretching. Nero can hear his spine crack, and he wonders how long they’ve been up here, how long Dante sat and watched him do whatever it was he was doing before he woke up. Turning to face Nero once more, Dante offers him a hand up. “There’s no manual for it, as nice as that’d be, and no right or wrong answer. You just wing it until it falls into place.”

Groaning, Nero pushes himself to his feet as well, taking Dante’s offered hand of support as leverage. He’s gone stiff, which means they’ve almost definitely been up here for a few hours at least.

“How’d you even figure all this out, anyway?”

“Trial and error, mostly,” Dante says with a shrug. “Hard as it is to believe, I was young once, too.”

There’s a mischievous glint in his eye as he says this, poking fun at Nero’s constant reminders that Dante is an old man, and so Nero swipes at him, knocking his knuckles against the other man’s shoulder.

“Can’t picture it.”

Dante laughs. “I was a pretty handsome devil, too, if I do say so myself.” He scratches at his chin thoughtfully as he begins to make his way toward the door that leads back down to the second floor of the shop. “Wonder if I’ve got a picture anywhere.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it, old man,” Nero says as they step into the dark flight of stairs and make their way back inside. They walk in amiable silence, then, until they reach Nero’s bedroom, two doors down from Dante’s at the end of the hall.

Awkwardly, Nero clears his throat. “Thanks. For the advice and stuff.” 

There’s a warm smile on Dante’s face as he reaches for Nero, looping his arms around Nero’s shoulders to pull him in for a tight hug. Nero buries his face against the other man’s chest and takes a slow, deep breath. It’s nice—the hug, the conversation, the understanding. He’s never had that before, and the fact that he can talk to someone about this stuff, even though he’s often reluctant to, is a novelty he’s not sure will ever wear off. 

“No problem.” Dante rests his head on Nero’s, pressing a light kiss into his hair that makes Nero shiver a little in appreciation. “And, look. If you’re worried about this whole nighttime adventures thing, you can sleep with me from now on. I’ll keep an eye on you.”

Nero hesitates, the suggestion making something hot twist in his chest. They’ve slept together a few times—in both meanings of the word—but until now, Nero’s kept to his own space, not wanting to intrude any further than he already was. Falling asleep with Dante, the older man warm and solid at Nero’s back, is easily one of Nero’s favorite ways to sleep, but he still feels a twinge of guilt at the thought of doing it more regularly, like he’d just be in Dante’s way or something.

“I’m offering because I want to, kid. Don’t overthink it.”

“... okay, fine. Yeah,” Nero says, leaning up to return the kiss against Dante’s jaw before extracting himself from the older man’s arms. “But you better keep your snoring in check.”

“No promises there,” Dante says, and then he turns and heads back down the hallway toward his own bedroom without hesitation. The suggestion to follow him is abundantly clear, and yet Nero hesitates, watching Dante’s back as he walks away, feeling momentarily uncertain, torn between the desire for Dante’s support and the worry of being a pain in the ass that’s bouncing around his head in double time. It’s probably pretty absurd how much Nero worries about messing this whole thing up, but he can’t help it. Part of him is still convinced that this entire situation is too good to be true.

When Dante realizes that Nero hasn’t followed him yet, he turns, shakes his head, and gestures with his hand, his smile warm and genuine.

So Nero takes a deep breath, pushes down his worries, and follows.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on [Twitter,](https://twitter.com/desalwayscries) which is mostly DV but with an increasing frequency of DN and screaming about Nero.


End file.
